


hello, my watson

by shiterature



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bittersweet, Happy Ending, I promise, M/M, i just wanted to delete it from my wattpad so here we are in case anyone still wants it, literally i hate this sm, lmao i dont even know why
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:35:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27610759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiterature/pseuds/shiterature
Summary: i wrote this a year ago and forgot the premise and don't feel like reading it again but i think basically it tells the story of watson's death after living decades on his own, the end finally forcing him to let go of everything that's been holding him down. a long ass oneshot. enjoy? :)
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	hello, my watson

Pneumonia.

The thing that gets us all in the end, mostly. Except for Sherlock. Lung cancer had gotten the best of him so many years ago. And I wasn't surprised, really, but he should have listened to me when I'd told him to stop the smoking. But he was too stubborn, the bastard. Too smart for his own good. And, at the same time, not smart enough. He put his mind over anything and everything else, between physical and emotional and mental health. And that's why it had fizzled out before I did.

I'd had pneumonia before, as a young adult. It. Is. Hell. You always feel like you're drowning, like you can't breathe, and that you'd rather be dead.

I was able to fight it off then.

But times were different now. I was ninety-seven years old, a number my own sister couldn't even achieve regardless of her stubbornness in life, and my strength, my whole immune system itself, had been replaced by wrinkles and white hair and a lack of dignity. I couldn't even move enough to clean myself. There were people hired to wipe my arse and change my clothes and feed me and get me out of bed and bathe me and see me strip naked, flat on my back. I was grateful for them, of course, but it was so difficult feeling their eyes on every loose piece of skin on my body as they positioned a diaper around my waist. Yes, a diaper. Like what a toddler would wear. And I was a full-grown man. Past that, even.

But that happens when you age. You just need to let go of all that ego and dignity and defensiveness and give in to being innocent and hopeless and alone.

Alone.

That was a word I had become all too familiar with. I had Rosie. I had my grandson and my great-granddaughters. But they never visited. Rosie did about once every two weeks, but that was barely enough at all. Because the rest of those days and hours and minutes and gruelling seconds I spent immobile, unable to really move much, staring at the wall or at the telly, completely and utterly bored and quiet and cold and really, really fucking alone.

So I wasn't even sour to hear the news that I had pneumonia. Even though I knew my chances of making it through were slim. Slimmer than the chance of making it through Afghanistan alive. Slimmer than the chance of finding a new flatmate the second you say you need one. Slimmer than the chance of him becoming the one person you can't do without. And slimmer than the chance of you ending up going years and years without him.

Rosie tried her best to look all happy and cheery as she came over today. They hadn't brought me to the hospital yet. Not until it got harder to breathe.

She had been seeing me more often now, obviously because she knew that I was dying. I wish she would have seen me this regularly back before I was so close to the end. It was so boring without anyone to talk to or love or to be loved by. Oddly enough, I even wanted to shoot the wall.

"Hello, Dad," Rosie chirped this morning, bringing a plastic bag of food up to the kitchen and laying it down on the small square table fit for up to two people. It was degrading, that table. It was designed for people who were alone. The people working for this godforsaken nursing home must have thought it was bloody clever to put it there right where I could see it and remember how many people I'd lost.

I couldn't smell the food anymore. I could barely even taste, either. But my daughter brought things anyway. I wondered nonchalantly if it would be the last meal I ever put in my mouth. I knew she was wondering it as well.

Luckily, we had discussed final wishes many years ago. It was after Sherlock passed that I decided to plan ahead, and I was grateful I had. I didn't want to talk about dying now, when it was already happening. I had all my plans legally chosen already; I had virtually nothing to worry about.

Except for being tired and bored and cold and alone.

I would be cremated, we decided. Less expensive. Less occupied space. That's what Sherlock had wanted. He convinced me a long time ago to do the same. My ashes would be tossed next to his, too. Rosie had asked if I wanted to be by Mary, but, truth be told, she had faded away from me I don't know how many years ago. On top of that, she knew she was going to die as well. But she never told me she loved me or that she'd want to see me on the other side. So I think it was mutual.

The main reason, though, was that I didn't spend my whole life with her. She was no lifelong friend, no eternal lover. I had known her for maybe five years. And I was ninety-seven.

Rosie told me about a year ago that I'd always be remembered. Me and Sherlock Holmes. We had become social and literary legends over the years, reporters and paparazzi chasing us down streets faster than we used to chase criminals. But I didn't need to be remembered by anyone other than the people whom I loved. Not like that sentence would do much. I'd be remembered either way.

The food was tasteless, as it always was. There was no texture, either; everything I ate needed to be ground up in a blender these days. Rosie was quiet as she helped me eat, fear and dread hiding behind her chipper façade, her eyes glowing an almost black colour as she gently encouraged me.

But she left nearly as soon as she'd come. She had things to do, of course. Like watch my great-granddaughters grow up. They were twins, just a week old. I had met them once, briefly, before being separated due to my sickness. They didn't want them to die with me, even though I was sure my illness wasn't contagious but rather a stagnant and terminal one.

Or perhaps I was only wishing that it was.

•

My lungs were thickly coated with phlegm now, and that sucked. I could still breathe, unfortunately, and Rosie was proud of me for some reason.

"You just need to cough," she said softly, as if she still had hope. Truth be told, I was too weak already to take in a full breath to begin with, so coughing clearly wasn't an option. But I nodded and told her I'd try.

"So you still want us to keep you on life support if you end up going unconscious?" the doctor asked. I wasn't sure. But Rosie was. She was adamant they kept me alive for as long as they could.

"Those were his original wishes," she said. "Why would he change them now? If he wanted them to be different he would have told you without your having to pry."

Rosie was attached. Like me. It was hard for her to let go, easy to grab on. She didn't want to lose me. But she didn't understand. She would one day; I was sure she would. And then she'd likely regret wanting to keep me dragging on.

"Once you're having trouble breathing, we'll bring you here and hook you up to some tubes to drain it all out. Unfortunately, the sickness doesn't only affect the lungs, but the whole body, so it's possible you might go into a coma or experience a major fever and body aches. We will try our best to keep you breathing comfortably, however." the doctor said, scribbling a few notes down on his clipboard as I nodded half-heartedly. I didn't give a shit about what happened to me anymore. I was at the end anyway. At least, I hoped I was.

I was in a wheelchair. I had lost the strength to walk in my late eighties. Rosie wheeled me out of the hospital and into the cool London breeze, stopping at a bench and sitting down next to me. She was about sixty now, and her hips were getting to her. What an odd occurrence that was. When she was a baby, I never expected that something of the sort would ever happen before. Amazing how time passes and twists and doubles over.

She was usually chattery with me. But today she was silent.

This was infuriating. I didn't want to be treated any differently because of the circumstances. I wanted things to be normal so I could at least pretend I wasn't ninety-seven years old and almost definitely dying.

But Rosie couldn't hear my silent request, and she solemnly stared out at the street. I knew she wasn't thinking or distracted. She was very aware of what was going on. She wasn't even doing a good job at ignoring it. But she definitely wasn't addressing it, either.

"Say something, dammit!" I burst out, my arm painfully slamming on the armrest of my wheelchair. There was a flash of pain that sort of pricked at my wrist, and I mentally told myself that I was too old to do things like this anymore. "The silence is killing me faster than bloody pneumonia ever will." I sighed and closed my eyes, not very surprised at my outburst of anger. They seemed to come more and more as I aged.

Rosie shrugged. "What's to say?"

I sort of gaped at her. "What isn't to say?"

"How about you start a conversation yourself?" she suggested, and I clenched my jaw in irrational hostility.

"Fine," I said. "Fine." I looked out at the world in front of me, my eyes tracing the sky. It used to be beautiful, when I was younger. But colours fade after a while. Eyes become less keen. And cataract surgery was too horrifying for me to sign up for. So I dealt with the faded colours, the blurred faces. I had become used to them by now.

"To start off," I said, "I have pneumonia."

Rosie gritted her teeth. "No. Say something else."

I was defiantly silent, perhaps in a childish way. But I didn't feel like saying anything cheerful. Not in an effort to ignore life.

Rosie crossed her arms and leant back in the bench. "Tell me about Dad."

I glanced sideways at her. "He wasn't your dad."

She raised her eyebrows. "I beg to differ."

I sighed. "Rosie, we were never... he and I... I'm not gay."

She sort of snorted, her eyes rolling back into her forehead. "I'm not gay," she mocked in a low voice. "I care more about my flawless male bestie than my wife, but I'm not gay." She made a horrendous face while imitating me, and then giggled quietly and said, "I want you to tell me about Dad."

I looked down at my frail, wrinkly hands, folded loosely in my lap. I didn't like them. I wished they were beautiful like how they used to be. I wished I was beautiful like how I used to be.

Rosie leant closer to me, trying her best to look me in the eye. "Tell me about Sherlock Holmes."

For the longest moment, I didn't want to say anything.

I missed him. I missed Sherlock since the day he died. And I hated living through the loss again, telling his stories even though they should have been coming from his mouth instead. I was so alone now.

But Rosie was expectant, and the silence was dreadful, so I spoke.

"He wanted to retire one day," I said. "And I know that sounds... insane. He said he was married to his work, and, in a way, I suppose he was." I chuckled unexpectedly, going over my next sentence in my head. "But he wanted to take care of bees. Can you imagine that? Bees. He was always so concerned about them going extinct. He even thought they were cute."

Rosie smiled for the first time in a while. I found myself smiling as well, trapped in my own thoughts. "He said he wanted to move to the countryside and build little bee houses for them. Clearly, that never happened, since smoking got the best of him..."

I trailed off, my lips pursed as I remembered his last day.

He was pale. Only seventy-three, the man. Yet he looked so much older, lying there in the hospital gown, intravenous tubes running to his wrist, his eyes wide and scared. It was hard for him to breathe, too, just like it was soon to be hard for me.

"John," he gasped, his hand desperately reaching out for me. I ran over to grab it tightly with mine, feeling a knot in my chest as he looked up at me with a scared expression cast across his glossy eyes. "John."

My voice was a whisper as I swallowed, hoping for the best yet expecting the worst. "Yes?" I asked, feeling his muscles tense up each time he struggled to take a breath. His skin was so pale, his body so thin.

"John, I'm so..." He took another forced breath. "Frightened. I want to..." Another breath. The more the cancer had progressed, the less air he held in his lungs. He stopped being able to say full sentences about a month prior. "I want to believe in... something. I want... to go somewhere... John." His fingers, though weak, tightly gripped my palm as his white, furrowed brow tensed even more.

"You'll go somewhere," I assured him. "You don't deserve to go anywhere else. The universe is never so lazy."

Before now, he would have chuckled. His eyes would have lit up, his mouth turning up into a folded, wrinkly, adorable smile. But he was too scared now.

"John," he said. Each breath he took was a wheeze; the kind of wheeze that makes you feel as though you can't breathe yourself. "There's something I... need to tell you... I've been wanting to... tell you always but... never have."

I nodded, remembering him saying this before. "Yes?"

He looked at my hand, still holding his in a desperate effort to comfort him. "Since it's likely we'll... never meet again..." He paused, looking as if he wanted to cry, and then kept going. "I might as well... say it now."

I bit my lip. I hadn't wanted to accept the inevitable before. Death had never stared me in the face like it had at that very moment, and, knowing that the end was so near that he wouldn't come back even if England needed him, I had to take every bit of my limited strength to force back the tears. Crying would scare him more. And that would make everything worse.

Sherlock's white hair had grown back since he started refusing treatment, and the signature swoop of it still covered his forehead, even though it was thinner than it had been twenty years ago. He swallowed, taking even more painful breaths as his green and blue eyes stared into mine. "John..."

I looked at the floor, hoping this wasn't his very last moment. His skin was still soft as his fingers wrapped around mine, squeezing my palm in terror.

"John... I love you."

I blinked, suddenly unaware of the circumstances of his health, startled as I darted my eyes back up at him. He didn't mean this in a platonic way. I knew because I had never seen his face look the way it did before.

At a loss for words, I stared at his eyes in a state of utter shock as he kept talking.

"I know this is a... lot to take in, and... I'm sorry. It's... just that I should... have said this a long... time ago, and... now that I'm... shutting down, I want... you to know." His eyes were sincere, the gaze unsurprisingly intense. That was how his eyes always were.

"All that wasted... time that I could... have told you is... gone."

I clenched my teeth together as hard as I could. Be a soldier, I told myself. Don't cry. Be a soldier.

"But I think..." Sherlock said, his fingernails making marks in my palm by now, "that no time... with you was ever... wasted, John."

I swallowed. "You must love me a lot, then," I choked out, and he smiled just the tiniest bit at the very edges of his pale lips.

"You'd be... surprised."

"So," I said in attempt to make things lighter, "Mrs. Hudson was right all along."

He nodded. "Oh, Hudders..." he breathed. "I'll see her... soon, I hope. If... there is an... afterlife, of course." His eyes got wide again, and I grabbed his hand in both of mine as his grip tightened.

"It's okay, Sherlock," I whispered. "I've got you."

"John." His voice had a sense of urgency in it now, and I was quick to respond because of it.

"Yes?"

"I'm not getting enough... oxygen. My vision is... blurring." His pupils began dilating a bit as his eyes started to lose focus. My heart jumped in my chest and I immediately pushed the button on the wall to call for a doctor. My hand never left his, though, because I knew he needed it.

"John, I want one... more thing. For me... please." His pupils got bigger and blacker faster than I could count, and he squinted his eyes shut and opened them again as if that would help clear the black spots from his vision.

"What is it?" I asked. "Tell me, Sherlock."

My friend took a short, loud breath. "I want... you to..."

But before he had the chance to finish the sentence, his grip loosened around mine, his eyes glossed over and rolled back, and he flatlined.

At first I didn't know what was happening. I was stuck in a state of frozen terror, the extreme and sudden turns of events stunning me and making it hard to think. But the continuous beeping slowly pulled me out of it, back into reality, even though it was more painful than it was inside my head.

"Sherlock." I said, as if he could hear me. "Sherlock."

But I could barely hear myself over the sound of the heart monitor.

I wanted to hug him. To touch him, to feel his warmth before it was gone. Maybe I could shake him awake. Maybe he could come back. But, before I had the chance, I was pushed back by doctors and nurses and assistants trying to keep him alive. But they couldn't do it. That was it. That was the end of Sherlock Holmes.

Most people with cancer go into a coma before they die. But, then again, Sherlock wasn't most people. He was more. He was-

"Dad." Rosie said, shaking my shoulder. "Dad, come back to reality."

I gasped and opened my eyes to find myself in the exact same spot where I had been telling a story just moments ago. This happened a lot. I'd think about that day and I'd get stuck there. That was another reason I wanted Rosie around more often: she could shake me out of it. I couldn't do that myself.

I wondered for a moment who'd be around to shake her out of the memory of my death. Or perhaps I'd die alone and she wouldn't have one. Or perhaps losing a father isn't the same as losing Sherlock Holmes.

•

I woke up in a sputtering coughing fit. My heart pounded in my chest as I hacked up whatever had clogged my windpipe. My condition had become much worse over the past few days. It seemed that, no matter how many fluids I drank, no matter how much hot steam I inhaled, no matter how well I took care of myself, nothing helped. Nothing at all.

Squinting at the analog clock next to me, I groggily made out the number 2:21 as I tried my best to breathe. I hated that number. I hated it so much.

I wanted to go back to sleep. But breathing was too hard. And I didn't have the energy to cough.

My hand desperately grabbed at my bedside table, grasping for the feeling of my smartphone. My fingers found its smooth surface and picked it up, bringing it to my face and pretending not to be blinded when the screen turned on.

I dialled Rosie. She'd know what to do. She always knew what to do. How interesting it was that she depended on me growing up, but I now depended on her instead.

My breath gurgled a bit as I spoke, which was disgusting and terrifying at the same time. "Rosie," I gasped. "It's hard to breathe. Tell me what to do."

"Call for the doctor," she said groggily, and I shook my head.

"I don't want to be in hospital just yet."

She sighed. "Then cough it up."

I hissed through my teeth. I couldn't cough. I was so weak when it came to coughing that I had a better chance at drowning in my own phlegm if I did.

"Just... Come get me," I said.

"You want me to bring you to the hospital?" she asked. "Just call an ambulance, Dad. I'm so tired I'd end up getting us in a wreck if I drove."

I sighed. "Fine."

She sounded worried as she said it, but she definitely meant it when she added, "I love you, Dad."

"I love you, too," I said, hanging up and hesitantly calling for transportation.

•

Hospitals are too white. Too barren. You're supposed to feel safe in a hospital. But they don't feel safe. They feel fake and too clean and too bright. They feel, in a way, like hell. Or maybe hell was better. I wouldn't know.

One person that still talked to me was Molly Hooper. Or, at least, she talked to me now. Her husband had passed on a few years back, and I was one of the last living people she knew.

Texting wasn't popular anymore. I didn't know what was. But Molly and I would text. She always tried to lift me up with humour, though God knows she was never very funny. And, even if she was, making me feel happy these days was a difficult feat.

I've got pneumonia, Molly, I told her now. I'm sorry.

Sorry! she replied. But why be sorry for me?

I sighed, not wanting to get very into it but simultaneously needing her to know that it was serious. Or, at least, it was likely to be.

Because I don't want to leave you alone.

I could almost hear her laugh as she replied. That was something about her I admired. She was always an optimist. She was never truly broken.

But I'm not alone, John, she said. I've got family. Don't feel guilty if it gets you in the end.

I sighed, my slow, shaky fingers trying their absolute best to hit the right buttons.

I think it will get me.

She took a bit longer to respond now. She probably felt bombarded, burdened, even, by the news. And I knew she'd feel sad when it happened. She was just putting on a happy face and pretending she didn't mind that I was most likely going to go. I wasn't certain that was supposed to be a good thing or something to be insulted by. But I was too bored to care.

Pneumonia sucks, she replied eventually. I'm sorry about that. And you're a good friend, John.

Ah, the great tagline. You've been a great husband, or You've been a good friend, or You're such a good brother to me. All things people say when death is on the horizon. Maybe Molly thought it'd be the last thing she ever said to me. Hopefully she meant it.

They didn't "drain out my lungs" like they had promised. They did stick a few tubes down there and put me on antibiotics. They tried their best to clear up my windpipe, of course, but it didn't do much, since it had filled back up overnight anyway. Perhaps it would be best to just go unconscious and become a vegetable without even knowing it. Or maybe I could just jump out my window and get it over with. But they'd probably catch me before I could slide the glass open.

I was in a bed now.

Hospital beds are shit to sleep on. They're either too hard or too soft, so you feel like you're either on a rock or drowning in fabric. They prop you up on pillows and pretend to know what they're doing. But nothing ever feels good when you're there. Especially when you've got pneumonia. Although that part really does go without saying.

There was an old telly up on the wall from maybe 2015. I remembered how expensive they used to be, how revolutionary it was to have a television set that was flat and could do things you wanted it to. Now you could get them for almost as cheap as you could go. How the times had changed.

There was nothing good on. Just news and shows that were too fake to be entertained by. That was one thing that hadn't changed.

Rosie didn't visit for many, many days. Sometimes I stared at the wall. Sometimes I threw things at it. Sometimes I yelled at the ceiling. My nurse thought I was suffering from dementia or something. I wasn't. I was just angry and bored and I wanted all this to be over with.

I had heard somewhere in the paper once that we were two halves, Sherlock and I. Perhaps that was why I felt so empty. Or maybe I really did have dementia. Some days it was hard to tell.

•

"How's your breathing today, John?"

This nurse was a kind one. He was young, maybe in his late twenties, and he had a clipboard in his right arm that he mostly just carried around and rarely used. He wore a warm smile, and, even though he knew very well who I was, he was the first one that hadn't asked for my autograph. My hands were too shaky to give out autographs these days to begin with, but he didn't ask for a picture, either.

So I respected him. But I wasn't any less honest.

"My breathing?" I repeated, sighing thickly and taking a nonchalant sip of metallic-tasting water. "I'd rather not be breathing, if that answers your question."

"Sorry to hear that," he said. His name tag read Byden. I made sure to read it each day because I kept forgetting it. With the times, names kept getting more and more obscure. I liked my name. It was classic, historic, one that's always around. But people these days were making up completely new names, mashing random letters together and hoping it worked. But it didn't. Or perhaps I was just being too bitter.

It really was difficult to breathe now. There had already been a few times where I choked, and someone would have to fish the phlegm out with their hand if they couldn't get it out by smacking me on the back. How odd that humans were built to breathe that way. It would have been so much more convenient and comfortable to be a worm, breathing through the skin instead of relying on organs that have the potential to be plugged.

Byden left then, and I picked up my phone once more. That was all I really had to do. And there was nothing anyone could bring me from my retirement home, anyway; I had already read and reread all of Sherlock's old science books that is taken with me when I moved. I'd possibly memorised a few. One of them he had hand-written himself, so I read that one the most often. Sometimes it seemed as if I could hear him saying all the words, feel his hand as he held the pen against the paper. I was one of the only people that was ever able to make out his messy, scribbling hand. So perhaps it had been written for me.

But, no. I wasn't that special. Not to him. And I was sure he was just loopy from the lack of oxygen when he told me otherwise.

My body had begun to ache by now. My fever wasn't all that bad, but the pain was. They had sedated me a bit, so I was sleeping a lot as a side effect. Sometimes people came to visit when I was asleep and left because I took too long to wake up. But they were kind enough to leave flowers and little handmade cards by my bedside table. But why would anyone leave flowers? I could barely see colour anymore and I couldn't take in enough breath to even smell them.

It was the thought, of course, that was supposed to count. But what would have counted more was actually spending time with people when I was awake. Because you can't get bored when there are people around. And they're always a good distraction from the pain and the idea of death. Although I wasn't too scared of death at the time being. Perhaps it was because I was too miserable to care.

•

I decided to consult with the only therapist I had ever kept. And, no, that didn't mean myself. I was my second choice.

She sat in front of me now, her pen tapping roughly on her knee. Female therapists were always better for me. I didn't know why.

"And why do you think you're so bitter, John?" she asked in what sounded like a mixture, perhaps, of a London and Cockney accent.

I shrugged, immediately responding with, "I don't know."

She sighed. "John, I know you do. Please tell me. We've been beating around the bush for years."

I kind of scoffed, not too roughly, though, because then I might start another coughing fit. "Why now? Because I'm dying?"

She pursed her lips for a while. Then, taking a wavering breath, she replied, "You hired me to clear things up. I want to do my job before it's too late."

And, for some reason, that wasn't irritating in the least.

"Look, Jane," I said, staring up at the ceiling. "Life is hell. I wouldn't mind dying. I mean, I'm afraid of it, of course, but I'll bet it's better than here."

I could hear the white noise for the first time in ages. One, two, three, four, five seconds of silence before she replied.

"There's nothing to be afraid of, John."

I shrugged. "Loneliness."

"You believe the afterlife is lonely?"

I sighed. "I mean... I hope it isn't, Jane. And I'm afraid because maybe it is. But I don't know, and that makes it worse.

"But it happens to everyone," she said. "If the afterlife is pointless and lonely and dry then why would we have to die in the first place?"

"I don't know," I almost whined. "I don't bloody know. Maybe God, or the universe, or whatever's out there is just sick and mental and twisted and wants to see us suffer in eternal grief." I sighed. Maybe that would be better than this.

Jane pursed her lips. "Not even psychopaths would do such a thing, John; I assure you."

I half-laughed, half-scoffed. "Are you suggesting I die, then?"

"What?!" she exclaimed. "Of course not! I'm just saying that there's nothing to be afraid of."

I sighed slowly, even though it hurt my chest. "I know," I admitted reluctantly, realising that, for God's sake, she was my therapist and there was no reason not to be honest with her. "I'm just being irrational."

She shook her head. "It's all normal, John. It's okay. Just let things happen, okay? Take this as a sign to take care of yourself before you no longer can."

I opened my mouth to object, inwardly pointing out that I physically couldn't take care of myself for the last decade, but I knew that wasn't what she meant. Besides, talking was uncomfortable, anyway. It made my windpipes all gurgle-y and it gave me the drowning feeling again. So I bit my tongue, telling myself that I, maybe, for once in my life, could refrain from being an asshole. I didn't want people to remember me that way.

But what I had learnt in life was that, even if you're so bad at understanding emotion that you forget it's there, even if you're so utterly ignorant of everyone and everything except for facts you remember in an intangible floor-plan in your head, the people who matter most will still remember you as the best and the wisest man they've ever known. So I didn't have to worry about that, either.

But I was still terrified of dying.

And I had no idea why that was. Because, first off, I had just cleared up everything with my own bloody therapist. Second, I was an army doctor. I always knew death would happen to me before I knew it. I used to think I was prepared.

I still pretended I was. And, in that bleak moment of vacillating back and forth between terror, pain, discomfort and pride, I stared up at the ceiling with my foggy eyes and felt the words tumblr out of my mouth before I had the chance to think about what I was saying.

"I'm ready to die."

Jane was shocked. Her mouth agape and seemingly jammed that way, she said nothing. And I didn't blame her.

But saying it felt good to. Like it was something I'd been holding in for a really long time, it felt good to come clean. So good that I began to laugh a bit. And then I began to cry. Because it hurt. Everything hurt and I hated it and I wanted to die. And saying it made it real.

I weakly wiped the tears out of my bagged and wrinkled eyes and nodded. "Yeah," I repeated to myself. "I am ready to die."

•

Suicide was pointless, so I didn't even consider it anymore. Instead, I considered other things.

For example: cremation. The idea of my body being smashed up and burned was painful to even think about it, even though I knew I wouldn't be in it anymore. It was a hard thing to fathom, that. But, then again, being locked in a box and put underground was terrifying as well. So I decided to forget about what happened after I died and focus more on before.

Rosie was in charge of making the decisions. If I went into a coma, she was the one responsible for telling them to turn off the switch. But I knew she wouldn't want to do that. She wanted to keep me forever, and, as much as I loved her, I wished she would stop thinking so naïvely. Because I'd said it myself: I was ready to die. Whether or not she was ready to lose me was beside the point. Because you are never ready to lose someone you love. Ever. But you still have to do it.

I wrote all this down on a note in my phone. Jane said it would be good to get all my thoughts out. She meant it in the sense that it's healing to express emotion instead of keeping it pent-up. But I knew that whatever I put down, the public would be all over it when I was getting turned into dust and someone opened my phone for posterity or whatever. Because everyone would want to know about the secret life of John Hamish Watson. Even now. Even though they hadn't heard from me in years.

So, just in case someone ended up intruding, I added a little message at the end of the note just to scare future readers off.

Hello to the person reading. I believe you're trespassing, by the way. But how would I know? It's not like I have experience in the field of crime or anything.

I smirked at that, chuckling as I imagined everyone's reaction to it, and then promptly stopped my chortling as I was thrown into another coughing fit. Phlegm clogged my windpipe, and I jolted up in bed after I couldn't get it out with one small cough. I sort of gagged it out until I could finally breathe again. It sounded sort of like wheezing, but at least my lungs were working. At least I was alive.

Not like I was grateful to be alive or anything. Not at all.

But I still wanted to be alive. I wanted it in a primal way. Because, no matter how prepared I told myself I was, there was always the little part of my brain that wanted to hold on for as long as it could. The part of my brain that had always been biologically wired to scream, "Stay alive. Stay alive. Stay alive forever." And, even though I pretended I couldn't, I could still hear it loud and clear.

Maybe I wanted to die in a coma. Then that part of the brain wouldn't be so loud. Then I wouldn't be scared to go. Everyone is scared to die if they know they're dying, all because of that little part of the brain. But it was still good that the little voice was there. Because if it wasn't, then everyone would be fearless and reckless and dying all the time.

Too much thinking, I decided, and laid back down on my bed. It was too hard and stiff. It hurt to sleep on.

•

Over the next week, it got harder and harder to breathe. Harry came more often, once and a while with a notebook to try and write down stories she asked me to tell. For posterity, she explained sombrely. It pissed me off. I was dying, for Christ's sake, and instead of spending time with me because, you know, I was her dad, she wanted some stupid memoir. And it hurt to talk. It even hurt to breathe.

I didn't tell her anything. It was too painful, in both the physical and emotional sense. It hurt to remember when I was young and alive and well. It hurt to know that I was leaving that behind soon. And it hurt to remember Sherlock Holmes.

I always sounded all blubbery when I took a breath. Even when I exhaled, it would sound like an old car motor, or blowing bubbles in water through a straw. I could hold my breath for less time. I took smaller breaths. And we all knew I wouldn't survive this. Except the problem was that nobody blood talked about it. Everyone forgot about it and pretended it wasn't real, and they went around acting the same way and doing the same things as they did when I was fine. It was like I was invisible. But, then again, I'd probably be livid if all they did was talk about how I was dying, too.

Stethoscopes were still cold these days. This didn't make a lot of sense, since, with all the new technology they were adding to vehicles and devices and even homes, they couldn't fix the most bothersome problem that almost everyone has to go through: a freezing piece of metal on your bare back. It made me want to writhe in my own skin.

"And breathe in..." Byden instructed gently. I liked him. He was one of the only people that didn't drive me insane. Hell, he was probably the only one at all.

My breath was shaky and shallow, but I did as I was told. 

"And breathe out."

I hated the sound of my breathing. Each day it became more fluid and disgusting. The stethoscope, finally starting to warm up a bit, moved to the other side of my back, and I breathed in again.

"You've got a lot of mucus in there, John," Byden sighed. "You should definitely be coughing more."

"I can't," I complained weakly. "It's too hard. And it hurts."

"Mm," he replied, jotting down a few notes. I really hoped his handwriting was legible so they didn't accidentally misread what I needed. "We'll have to get you on more fluids then."

"Jesus," I exclaimed halfheartedly. "How many IV tubes am I gonna need?"

Byden smiled warmly. "Oh, don't fuss," he said. "It's all for the better; I assure you."

I nodded. "I know," I confessed. "I was an army doctor. I know."

"An army doctor, now?" Byden asked with sudden interest. "Where?" He sat down in a chair that was positioned by me and placed his clipboard at the foot of my bed. I perked up a bit. He really cared. How... refreshing. I wasn't used to that.

"Afghanistan," I replied. "But I was invalided home after getting shot in the shoulder."

"So that explains the scar," he realised aloud. "You know, I've read your blog, but I never knew that at all."

I shrugged. "I mustn't have mentioned it much," I decided, and then furrowed my brow. "You've read my blog?"

"Oh, come on, mate," he said. "Everyone's read your blog. They may not be all the rage these days, but everyone wants to know about you and Sherlock Holmes."

"Really?" I marvelled. "Even today?"

"Of course!" Byden replied. He opened his mouth to continue, but his pager started beeping, a small red light on the side flashing on and off and on again. He stood up quickly and gathered his clipboard. "Sorry," he said hurriedly. "I'll be back."

Byden ran out at almost full speed, and I returned to my thoughts again.

My thoughts were so lonely and empty. I always thought about the same things: why I was sad, how I was going to die, when I was going to die, death. It was a rotating cycle, which I always seemed to notice when I felt lonely, or when people left.

I spent the rest of my day thinking. God, it was so boring. I was bored. Sometimes I was so bored I couldn't even think, and I just sat there and stared out the window.

I wish Sherlock were here.

I was never bored around him. He always had something to say. And, even when he didn't, he was still interesting and exciting and comforting. I wish I could say that Rosie was like that, but that would be a lie.

And, maybe if he were here right now, suffering from lung complications beside me, neither of us would be bored or scared. Maybe we could die at the same time, and then neither of us would have to grieve.

But he was already dead, so wishing was pointless.

Byden came more often, staying for longer periods of time. Sometimes he would stand and examine me while I told him about my life, and sometimes he would just sit and listen. He absorbed everything, as if every little piece of him was invested in the incredible story that was my life. He would ask, I would answer, and he would be drawn in.

I told him how lonely I was. I told him about what it felt like to know you're about to die. I told him about Rosie and Mary and Sherlock and even Mycroft, and he sat there and listened like a child. But I thought he was very grown-up. He was very mature for his age; enough where I felt like I was talking to an old friend. I started to feel less lonely.

And then I started to die.

•

"We need assistance in room four twenty-seven!"

I could barely hear anyone. I felt sleepy and light, my lungs barely taking in any air. They were too full of fluid to hold any more.

I was close to flatlining. I could hear the beeps on the heart rate monitor ringing once every so often, so slow and short that they were almost nonexistent. My lungs weren't getting enough oxygen. So neither was my brain, and therefore neither was my heart.

Harry was here. She was the one who had alerted the doctors. She stood outside the door and screamed for help, and help was coming. Out of the echoing, distant sounds I picked up, I could hear doctors and nurses shouting and rushing over to me. I felt like I was dreaming. And I didn't exactly know I was dying, so I wasn't scared.

They had never drained my lungs. That would have required surgery, and I was unlikely to survive or recover from that due to my age. So they let me go like this.

Byden was there. Harry was there. And it seemed like the population of the entire planet was in that room as well, crowding around me and trying to keep me awake.

It was all blurry, and everything seemed to be in slow motion. I felt like I was falling asleep, and I let it happen.

My heart monitor then gave a long and continuous beep, and that was when I stopped seeing.

And then I saw nothing.

It wasn't black or grey or white. It was just nothing.

But the nothing faded out, and soon it was everything.

I wasn't quite sure how I was moving, but I was, and I found myself feeling the sensation of grass below me. I was surrounded by what appeared to be a forest, with sunlight flooding in through the tops of the trees above. I felt buoyant all of a sudden. Youthful. Serene. Content and happy for the first time in a very, very long time.

Perhaps I was dreaming.

But it didn't feel like a dream. It felt different than that. It felt more real than real life itself.

Am I dead? I wondered aloud, my words echoing around me even though I hadn't even tried to speak. Is this what the afterlife is like?

I turned and looked around me at all of my surroundings, taking in the beauty of the scenery. The colours were bright and clean, wildflowers and clover clotting and matting on the edge of the trees like the dew that clotted and matted over them. I turned in a complete circle, paused, and then turned in another one. Once, twice, three times more.

Am I alone?

There was no heartbeat pounding in my chest, no hitch of the breath, but there was a sudden sinking feeling in the centre of whatever I was. This was what I had feared. Loneliness.

"John."

An answer.

I couldn't tell from which way the voice had come, but it echoed in my head as I tried to spot someone. I recognised that voice. I remembered it all too well.

"Mary?" I asked almost frantically, turning in even more circles. She wasn't there, but she sounded like she was nearby.

I heard her laugh, and I became confused. "Where are you?" I asked, and her laugh echoed again, swirling around me and pounding in my head.

"I heard you arrive," was her only reply. "I'll be there in a moment."

This isn't real, I decided. It was like some cryptic dream. Things don't work like this.

"What do you mean you heard me arri-"

And then she was right in front of me. I jumped backward in shock, and she smirked in a calm sort of amusement.

"It means that souls here have a way of knowing who's around and where they are."

My mouth hung open in shock. "How did you-"

"I ran."

"You ran?!"

"Well..." She tipped her head in thought. "Kind of?"

She looked very nice in the filtered light around us. But I felt out of place in front of her. She wasn't very connected to my memories anymore. It was awkward.

I found myself lost in my thoughts again, and Mary narrowed her eyes.

"What?" she asked suspiciously, and I shrugged.

"I don't know," I said. "I just didn't really expect to..."

"Expect to what?"

"Well," I explained slowly, "I didn't expect to... see you here, I guess..."

Mary laughed loudly, her head craning back and her nose pointing up to the sky. "So you thought I'd be in Hell?"

I was taken off-guard by her accusation, but then realised how true it was. "Well... yes."

She nodded. "You know, shooting Sherlock Holmes and lying about your identity to your husband doesn't-"

"Sherlock." I gasped, suddenly remembering him. "Is he...?"

"He's here," Mary replied, folding her hands together in front of her. "Secluded, mostly. He spends a lot of time alone with the taller trees." She seemed a bit sad at my asking the question, and I cleared my throat awkwardly.

"I'm sorry," I apologised quietly. "I didn't even ask how you've been."

She sighed and shrugged, pursing her lips neutrally. "No," she said. "I expected him to be your first priority."

We were silent. I realised with a sharp pang of guilt that I wasn't even very delighted to see her. So much for a warm welcome.

"So you want to see him, then?"

I furrowed my brow. "What?"

"Sherlock. You want to see him."

I felt life start to surge through me at the mere mention of the possibility. "May I? I mean, is that okay-"

"I'll call him," Mary interrupted in a way that suggested a "Just shut up and get on with it." She closed her eyes and seemed to concentrate for a moment before opening them and looking back at me. "He's been waiting for you for quite some time."

"He has?" I asked hopefully. "For how long?"

Mary looked down at the ground. "Pretty much since he got here."

I pursed my lips, finally feeling less alone. Swallowing nervously, I looked her in the eyes, avoiding her semi-scornful expression.

"How do I look?"

She was quick to reply. "Young."

I nodded, rocking back and forth on what felt like my heels as we both stood in silence. After years of restless nights, decades of loneliness and what seemed like centuries of misfortune, I was finally about to see the one person that I missed the most.

I was about to see him.

What would I say?

Maybe I'd be a mess. Maybe I wouldn't say anything. But my guess was that I'd say something stupid. Or maybe just "hi". Which was also a stupid thing to say. Even just thinking about this made me nervous, and I tapped my fingers against my leg in attempt to control my anxiety. I had fingers. That was cool.

I still didn't know if this was real. It was possible I was just asleep. And that was probably, at the moment, what I feared the most.

There was a rustle in the bushes then, and my heart jumped in my chest, which came as a surprise considering I hadn't thought I still had one.

And then, finally, sprinting through the bushes, was the one person I had wanted to see for the last multiple decades. He was young again, just like I apparently was, and he raced toward me with all the speed he could muster.

My voice nearly caught in my throat.

"Sherlock."

He came to a full stop in front of me. His face looked almost broken, but in a good way. Like both of us were thinking the exact same thing.

"John," he breathed. "John."

We were frozen there for the longest time, just staring. I didn't know what to do. Neither did he.

But then my heart jumped again, for absolutely no reason at all. It hurt. An abrupt wave of pain went through my chest. I felt like I was drowning again.

And then another jolt. This one flew me forward, and I landed in Sherlock's arms as I felt less and less well. 

"What's going on?" I asked desperately, and Sherlock only returned my question with a pale look of fear.

"John." he whispered. 

At this point, my heart jumped one more time, and Mary started walking back to us. I felt sick. All the pain and sickness I had experienced earlier was gradually flooding back into me.

I felt like I was being pulled. Tugged at the strings by some other sort of force. My body hurt all of a sudden. I felt like I was drowning. Like I had lungs again, both filled with a sea of water. I fell forward, my hands grasping at the ground, at the grass, at Sherlock, who was chasing after me as I was pulled into a vortex-like thing on the floor by my feet.

Sherlock's face was desperate, broken, his hand reaching out to mine.

"John."

"Sherlock," I replied, just missing his hand. "Sher-"

And then I went under. It was like falling into a hole and looking upwards while doing it.

"John," I heard him whisper one last time before my heart jumped again.

My eyes opened with a desperate gasp and coughing fit. I hurt all over.

I was back in the hospital again. An oxygen mask was strapped over my mouth, and Rosie was standing above me, her eyes filled with tears and her hand over her mouth.

"Dad!" she shouted.

But I barely heard her.

I was in too much pain. I hated this. I wanted to go back. Back to all that happened before. Back to the grass and the elation and the people I missed.

Although it was weak, my hand made its way to my oxygen mask, and I ripped it off of my own face, Rosie watching me in confused terror.

"Daddy?" she asked quietly.

"I have to go back," I whispered through coughs. "You have to... let me..."

She was desperate. She grabbed the mask from beside me, forcing it back on my mouth.

"Please, Dad!" she sobbed. "Please just breathe!" The plastic mask hurt my nose where she was pressing it.

No, I wanted to say. Leave me alone. Let me die. I want to go back.

I caught Byden's eye, and he took that as a signal. I was fond of him. He understood. I hoped he eventually got to the place I was going.

Byden placed a gentle hand on Rosie's shoulder, and, sobbing and crumbling into his arms, she let go of the oxygen mask.

Finally.

I felt myself drifting off. But I wasn't afraid anymore. I was peaceful. It was time.

"I love you," I whispered as loudly as I could. Because, if my last words were to ever be quoted, those were the ones I'd want them to be.

And so I drowned.

I let my lungs be filled. There was no way around it. They wouldn't even be my lungs in a minute or two. I let it take over my body. I let myself stop breathing. I let my eyes gloss over, still open, as I watched the ceiling. It was beautiful, the ceiling. The tile reflected the light of the room perfectly. Maybe that was a common occurrence when people died: thinking the sight of it is beautiful. I hoped so. Earth needed a bit of appreciation. What a fantastic planet indeed. Everything happened there. All my important memories took place on that little, fragile planet. What luck.

And, almost as soon as I had let it go, I found myself in the same, flowery clearing where I'd earlier arrived. Sherlock was sitting cross-legged in the grass, perking up when he heard me. 

"John!" he breathed.

My breath hitched in my throat. "Sherlock." 

He stood up.

"You have no idea," he said finally instead of just using my name, "how long I've been waiting for you."

I smiled. "No, I don't," I agree. "Would you care to tell me?"

He walked toward me cautiously, as if he was scared I'd be dragged down again.

"I don't even know," he admitted. "I was just really, really bored."

We both laughed, and I realised with almost a slap to the face how much I'd missed the sound of his. I'd missed him. I'd missed him so much.

My smile fell away, being replaced by a sort of urgency. After all these years, I got to see him again.

He stood awkwardly in front of me, hesitantly, too scared to do anything in fear I wouldn't want him to. His eyes were soft, brooding, unsure. Without him even saying it, I knew what he was thinking about.

His death.

It hurt to remember. It hurt so much. Looking up at him, I could see he felt the same way.

Not wanting to remember much more of it, I closed the small space between us, bringing him into a tight, much-needed hug. As if he'd been waiting for this the whole time, he immediately returned it, holding me tightly as I buried my face in the crook of his neck. He still had the same smell, even here. It was comforting, peaceful.

"John," Sherlock whispered into my hair as he hugged me back. "What I said that day... I meant it."

I waited for it. I wasn't exactly sure which thing he meant.

"I really do love you."

He sounded so fragile when he said it. Like his guard was completely down, and it would have been so easy to break him. But I didn't. I didn't have to. This place was a solitary place, free of judgment. I could say damn near whatever I wanted and nobody was there to laugh or be disappointed in their son or make fun of me about it. So, hesitantly, I replied.

"I love you, too."

His grip around me tightened then, and he began laughing softly.

"You could have told me that earlier," he said. "That would have saved a lot of time."

I laughed into his chest, seeming to melt into him. Hugging him was so nice. It made me want to dissolve.

"What took us so bloody long?" I asked, and he shook his head.

"I don't know."

I paused then, forcing myself to pull away from him. "At the end..." I began. "You wanted me to do something. What was it?"

Sherlock turned away, looking at the ground as I asked. "You'll think it's silly," he said. "Or... stupid, or something."

I shook my head. "I promise I won't."

Sherlock still wouldn't look at me. He faced away from my face at the sky, the wind flowing through his curls as he tried to avoid my eyes.

"I wanted, for just once in my life, before I left, I mean..." He sighed nervously. "I wanted you to kiss me."

My heart, if I still even had one, felt like it sped up. "Really?"

"Um, yeah," he admitted. "And I know it sounds weird. I just... I wanted to know what it felt like to really care about it. I wanted it to feel real."

I looked at my feet as he kept facing the wind.

"I would have done it," I said quietly.

He tuned to me. "What? Really?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

The smile on his face was beautiful all around, the wind still flowing through him, around him, around us, circling, twisting, twirling. I had to smile back. I didn't have a choice. It just happened on its own. Although I was sure I looked like an idiot.

Sherlock looked down at my hand. "You've still got a string."

I furrowed my brow. "A what?"

He pointed to my pointer finger, and I looked down to see a thread tied around it.

"When you're alive, you've got tons of them," he explained. "They keep you alive. They're the only things that keep you connected to your living body. Once you're fully gone, all of them will be gone, too."

I furrowed my brow, hoping I wouldn't have to go back again. "How do I get it off?"

Sherlock knelt down in front of me, taking my hand in his. "I'll do it for you," he said, and he slowly took his fingers and used a combination of them and his teeth to untie the knot, his lips brushing against my hand every so often in a way that should have been illegal. Eventually, I felt the little string loosen around my finger as he took it in his fingers and let it fall to the floor. I imagined Earth, my family and Rosie falling with it. But I was peaceful.

"So that's it," I breathed, and he nodded.

"That's it."

He stood back up, his hand not leaving mine, but instead intertwining with my fingers in a manner that suggested insecurity, or asking for permission in a way. I let him do it. Holding his hand was always something I'd thought would be nice if nobody else was looking. My fingers closed around his, and he smiled softly down at me.

"Are you ready?" he asked, and I met his eyes.

"For what?" I asked, and he shrugged.

"For... Forever, I guess." he replied, smiling innocently and squeezing my hand.

Loving the thought of spending the rest of time with the best and wisest man I had ever known, I smiled back and nodded.

"Do you know what I've got to say about that?" I asked playfully, and he smirked in return, glancing down at my lips as I spoke. I noticed.

"I can probably guess," he replied, "but say it anyway." He began leading me into the dense, beautiful trees around us, passing other arriving spirits as he pulled me along.

My feet tangling peacefully with the grass and the ivy, I laughed.

"Oh, God, yes."

He chuckled as well, although I was sure he had already predicted that I would say that. His hand was warm around mine, his smile contagious, his mind no longer bored or lost or waiting for me. Everything was as it should have been, and it would be that way, inevitably, forever.

-end-


End file.
